The incarnation was complete
by pondglorious
Summary: This is basically a retelling of what's happened so far in the series between Will and Alana, except from Alana's perspective.


Nothing had ever been simple. It was just _simpler_, gradually becoming less so until there was no way to find any form of simplicity in the little corners of her mind he had come to occupy. She wonders if there's any small corner in his shadowed mind where she might shed some light.

He had always just been there, a passing thought, a friendly smile, mindless small talk in the midst of the horror that seemed to trail along as close as a shadow where ever he goes.

She begins to notice his habits, his flaws, the way he composes himself, the way he attempts to hide the darkness that plagues him, and she wonders if he knows it's a wasted effort. She'd always heard a quiet buzz about him; he was often the subject of gossip, and how could he not be? He was cold and remote and mysterious and sometimes dangerous, and people had their whispered suspicions.

She finds herself analyzing him so much that she begins to know him without really knowing him, but she can't help it; it's just what she does. _It's a professional curiosity_, she tells herself, _that's all_.

She knows it's not when it becomes strictly _unprofessional_, to note details such as how many chords pop out of his neck when he's concentrating or how often he doesn't smile until she almost wants to applaud him when he does. The undeniable kindness of his face that so many don't see; they only see the darkness he's striving not to become.

It's just a schoolgirl crush, She tells herself, it's nothing. And she doesn't dwell on it; the rare times he happens to pop in her mind, he fades just as quickly as he came up, getting mixed up in a whirlwind of other unrelated thoughts. He comes like a smoke that she just can't _catch_, and then dissolves once again.

Their relationship, on the other hand, is strictly professional, but that doesn't stop the easy flirtatious banter between them. She finds it odd, when it becomes that way; He is so soft spoken and distant that she might have called him awkward.

Maybe it gets out of hand, everything she notices about him. How he acts like he's in a completely different world than everyone else, like his mind is programmed to be a completely unique design that only he can understand. The bags under his eyes; he must not get enough sleep. He twitches and fidgets; he must be paranoid, uncomfortable. The way he's always one step ahead of everyone else, the way he's frustrated when no one understands like he does; he's obviously very smart. He's obviously very good at what he does. The way he always carries around a little bottle of pills and is constantly gulping them down easily as water; It's obviously dragging him down, mentally and emotionally.

She knows people who could help him; sadly, it can't be her. It would far be too dangerous. There's someone else, though. Someone she trusts and believes could make a difference. So she leads them to each other, in hopes that she could be doing him at least a bit of good.

She's surprised that nobody else _sees_. The way he's slowly crumbling. It's gotten so noticeably worse since he killed Garrett Jacob bags under his eyes get darker, his nightmares more tortured, his demeanor becomes more paranoid and anxious. Soon she realizes that of course they notice, but they push away any thought of helping him. The only people willing are herself and Hannibal.

She knows Will gets so far inside of his own mind that she thinks she'd have to swim the deepest, darkest depths just to pull him out. She'd try, if she wasn't afraid the relentless tide would pull her down under with him.

Maybe she wouldn't mind that fate so much; maybe that frightens her even more.

She worries about him, too much than she should. She doesn't want him to get too close, and she's not shy about voicing this wish.

But he does anyway, and all she wants is to save him before it's too late. And when would that be? _Too late_ could be years; _too late_ could be the tomorrow.

And yet, he's not broken. She tells him this, on a cold morning with sunlight shining on their faces, making the patches of snow shimmer, making the vast golden field glint and shine as if it were actually made of it. He smiles and she thinks it's the most radiant she's ever seen. Even the glorious sun can't compare to it at that moment. The sun shines everyday, whether we can see it or not. He rarely smiles, and it's definitely not there whether she can see it or not.

Of course he's not broken, she convinces herself. He may be breaking; crumbling; wounded. But not incapable of healing. She hopes she can be there to help the process of it.

Later, she'll think that just maybe, she was wrong.

His house is too dark and cold on that night. She couldn't even think about taking off her heavy coat. She doesn't know he stands there in his thin shirt without shivering.

There's nothing in the chimney. She realizes this quite too quickly, and she gazes at him curiously, concerned. He notices her look. He knows whatever was in the chimney was a figure of his imagination. He panics internally, fearful, scrambling for an invisible savior. Time is paralyzed for a moment as their words and their realization linger in the air between them like a veil, distancing them from one another.

They stand frozen, until moments later, he veil is lifted they're melting into each other, their previous worries forgotten for a fleeting moment.

Alana _Bloom_. She'd never given much thought to her name; she never found a way to contort it so it fit with some aspect of her like a puzzle piece, to make it seem right, but maybe she just hadn't blossomed yet. Now she knows the full affect of it, for she blooms for him. Like a flower, her lips bloom for him, and the garden of her body yearns for the same nourishment that he brings. There are thorns in her stomach, that run down her spine, leading up to the rose at her mouth. Her stomach twists around them, bringing a dull, delicious ache, and a lump rises in her throat; that's the leaf.

She breaks away, voicing her confusion. She wishes she could stop the thinking, like he tells her too; she wishes she could let him stop it for her.

Yet, she refuses to be stubborn. She only steals one last kiss, just as feverish as the previous one, and leaves before she can give herself hope of fully blossoming this time.

She feels the thorns contract in her torso again as she drives away into the night, but she can't tell if they bring pain or joy.

...

Alana wanders into his lecture hall sometime later, stern in tone as she tells him that she can't just have an affair with him. She is gentle in her manner as she pulls him into a hug, both breathing in the scent of each other as if it's their last goodbye.

…

She knows he got _too close_ when she hears a gunshot through her window and looks out to see Will collapsing onto the snow next to the dead body of Abel Gideon. He saved her life, but she can't save his sanity.

…

She knows it's _too late_ when Jack calls her into his office and tells her the news. Her hands begin to shake to the same quick rhythm of her beating heart, she stays perfectly still, her mind racing to the pace of them too, trying to process, to reason, to explain. She feels the thorns once again, rising in her stomach, her throat, her eyes, her mind. This time there is no doubt they bring pain.

Her heart isn't breaking; it would have had to have been whole for him in the first place for that to be true. It's her bones and the skin that holds them together and her faith and trust and the small corners of her mind that he occupies that were shattering. The flowers infesting her anatomy her closing one by one, until they were small buds once again. Except, there was one that remained; one that had blossomed in hope, and she didn't think any words slipping from Jack's mouth could be horrific enough to make the petals close. She has hope. It must be the only thing that keeps her sane.


End file.
